


Not What I Was Expecting, But What the Hell

by missigma



Category: DCU
Genre: Drabble, Flirting, M/M, Rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2019-02-08 21:37:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12873543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missigma/pseuds/missigma
Summary: “Enjoying the view?” Bruce asked drily. Underneath his voice modulator, he sounded hoarse. He swallowed, trying to banish the gravelly rasp.“I don’t think I’ll get another opportunity like this.” Clark let his eyes flick back up to the blank lenses of the cowl. “Though now you mention it, do you need a hand?”With a slight grimace at the effort, Bruce straightened his back.  “I had this under control,” he assured Clark.“Did you?”Bruce’s answer came in a lopsided smile, made fearsome by the blood staining his teeth.***aka Clark rescues Bruce from mobsters at a strip club.





	Not What I Was Expecting, But What the Hell

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for the drabble-y nature of this fic. I've been wanting to post something for a while and at the moment, this is all I've got.

Tonight, Bruce’s heartbeat led Clark to a unincorporated corner of county land, just a mile off the loop. Dim sodium lights illuminated the sign “Diamond Gentleman’s Club”.

The lot was almost entirely empty, save a large SUV and a smaller truck. Standing just outside the barred doors, Clark easily caught the flow of the conversation inside.

“—and I can’t even believe we did. Are you sure it’s him?”

“Of course it’s him. It’s not like there’s more than one of them.”

“I don’t know, I just never thought he’d get caught like this.”

“Maybe he’s slipping.”

“What do we do with him?”

“Kill him.”

“No! That won’t get our investment back.”

“We could try selling him to Penguin.”

“Penguin would just rip us off. Might even have his men take us out, so he could take all the credit.”

“No, what’s better is we give him as a gift to Penguin. Then Penguin owes us a favor and we don’t have to deal with keeping Batman around here.”

“Alright, good.” The other men murmured their assent. “Now go knock him out, Don.”

Before the man could take more than a dozen steps towards Bruce’s heartbeat, Clark grabbed the handle of the door and pulled it off its hinges, splintering its frame.

“Pardon me.” Clark flashed a smile as he stepped inside. “You wouldn’t happen to have a phone I could borrow? I need to call the police.”

It took mere seconds for Clark to corral the five men in the manager’s office. He bound them there with a rigid length of a dry standpipe coiled around their chests, pinning them to the wall.

Locking the office door behind him, Clark ventured deeper into the club.

The narrow entry opened into a larger auditorium, the room almost entirely dark. A handful of gel lights illuminated the stage and the faded red curtain behind it.

Bruce stood centerstage, chained hand and foot to the pole at the end of the catwalk. In the darkened room, he was bathed in neon light, bright pink splashing harsh shadows over his forbidding cowl.

Though the bruises and blood smeared across Bruce’s face were enough to give him pause, Clark hung back for a moment, scanning his injuries. He let his gaze linger as he looked Bruce up and down, eyes flashing unearthly blue.

“Enjoying the view?” Bruce asked drily. Underneath his voice modulator, he sounded hoarse. He swallowed, trying to banish the gravelly rasp.

“I don’t think I’ll get another opportunity like this.” Clark let his eyes flick back up to the blank lenses of the cowl. “Though now you mention it, do you need a hand?”

With a slight grimace at the effort, Bruce straightened his back. “I had this under control,” he assured Clark.

“Did you?”

Bruce’s answer came in a lopsided smile, made fearsome by the blood staining his teeth.

Hands above his head, Bruce wrapped his strong fingers around the pole. He kicked out, the motion sharp enough to snap the slim chain connecting the shackles around his ankles. With effortless grace, he swung upwards until he hung inverted, powerful thighs wrapped tight around the pole.

His hands now in front of him, Bruce reached for the lock picks he kept at the inside of his wrists. Extracting his chosen instruments, he quickly set to work on the heavy lock looped through the chains.

As he watched, Clark knew it would only take him seconds to free himself. “What if they had soldered the lock shut?” he mused.

“I don’t see the point in humoring hypotheticals.” Bruce did not even raise his head, his cape hanging down over him, half-hiding him from view.  
Impulsively, Clark let his heat vision sear into the lock, melting the mechanism with the lock picks inside. Bruce withdrew his hands immediately, staring at the smoking metal lump, now welded shut.

One by one, Bruce uncurled his legs from the pole. He lowered himself slowly, touching back down on the floor toes first. As he faced Clark, his lips were thin, pressed into a white line as he assessed the threat he posed.  
“And now?” Clark prompted. “Do you need a rescue?”

“Depends.” Bruce cocked his head. “Do you mean a rescue from them,” he nodded slightly in the direction of the front office, “or you?”

“Whoever you think is the bigger threat.”

Bruce surveyed him silently and for a moment, Clark was certain he would not play along. “I have other options.”

“Like what?”

“Talking.” Bruce rearranged himself, lifting his chest and canting his hips sideways. He caught his toe around the pole behind him.

“You don’t look like you’re getting ready to talk.” Clark stepped up onto the stage, pausing only a pace away from Bruce. “Did you dance for them?”

“I might have showed them a few moves, but they didn’t like them.”

“Would you dance for me?”

“I’m not sure there’s anything in it for me.” Bruce adjusted his grip on the pole, biceps flexing. “Besides, I don’t think I’m dressed properly for the occasion.”

“Skintight suit and leather? I think you’ll fit right in.” Clark smiled, then reached for him, hands landing on his hips. “But if you’re looking for something a little more comfortable I could help you out.” He wedged his fingertips under the edge of Bruce’s chest plate and pulled, tearing through the heavy connective fiber with ease. Discarding the armor with a casual toss, he grabbed a handful of the flexible undersuit next, shredding it as he moved down his chest, stopping just short of his groin.

That left Bruce’s chest bare, his nipples quickly peaking in the chill of the room. Clark trailed a finger up his sternum, drawing a shiver from him. He caught Bruce’s jaw in his hand and found his lips and Bruce leaned into him as much as his bonds would allow.

The copper of blood suddenly blossomed in his mouth and, startled, Clark drew away. Fresh blood seeped from Bruce’s split lip, the wound reopened by the ferocity of their kiss. Bruce barely seemed to notice, craning his neck as he sought to press their lips together again.

Gathering Bruce in his arms, he pulled him tight against his chest. Though he could have easily burned through the chain on his wrists, he aimed instead to cut through the pole itself. He sliced through the metal once above Bruce’s hands, then again behind Bruce’s feet.

Bruce stumbled slightly as the top of the pole swung free, but Clark steadied him. Before the full weight of the pole could pull on Bruce’s shoulders, Clark lifted them both in the air. The pole quickly fell away, cracking loudly as it fell across the stage. Bowing his head, Clark sheltered Bruce as he swooped higher still, dodging lamps and air ducts to burst through the tar-papered roof.

Clark smiled to himself as Bruce flinched at the sudden chill of the early-morning air. In seconds, they left the city altogether, moving too fast for Bruce to catch anything other than a blur of lights, then the open darkness of the land as they left even the suburbs behind.

Fallow fields opened around them, long overgrown with grass and greens. Gently, Clark touched down. He cast Bruce down on the ground without any particular care.

With his hands bound, Bruce could not twist in time to catch himself. The grass beneath him cushioned his fall, his cape pooling black underneath him. Bruce watched him intently, if suspiciously, hands resting on his bare chest. However, he allowed his legs to be parted by Clark’s boot, splaying his thighs open.

Catching the chains with his fingers, Clark crouched over him, pinning Bruce’s wrists above his head. His other hand roamed covetously down all that was bared to him: Bruce’s chest, his rib cage, the hard muscle of his stomach.

Finding the ragged edge of his torn suit just above his pelvis, Clark started upwards. He groped and pinched at him, pulling a nipple tight between his fingers, before pressing his thumb deeper into the swell of his pectoral. Further still, he found the edge of the cowl, the seam against his cheek, and tore the helm from his head.

Underneath, he found Bruce’s eyes for the first time tonight. Without the protection of the cowl or the emotionless lenses, his eyes were dilated, wild and black. He tugged at Clark’s restraining hand only to have Clark push back, pressing his wrists into the dew-wet grass. He put his mouth to Bruce’s, tongue seeking entrance to his mouth and claiming it when Bruce answered, arching his body into his with desperation to be touched.

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this to try to cheer myself up over the summer. This was initially intended as a flashback for my probably never going to be completed retired Batman AU.
> 
> I blame this scene in Broken City for the idea:  
>   
> 


End file.
